


Navigational Error

by the_nerd_word



Category: Dead Space, Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Gore, Insanity, M/M, Self-Mutilation, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_nerd_word/pseuds/the_nerd_word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When infection spreads aboard the Sleipnir, the Starfighter crew struggles to survive an onslaught of violence, loss and Alliance betrayal. A crossover between Starfighter and Dead Space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a geek for horror games, so there was no way I could resist this crossover. This will have graphic violence, so please move on if that bothers you. Otherwise, enjoy!
> 
> Starfighter belongs to HamletMachine, and Dead Space belongs to EA Games.

It had started as a virus.

A handful of the crew had reported to medical with headaches and fatigue, with restless sleep plagued by nightmares and waking hours haunted by hallucinations.

Medical blamed it on stress. After all, with the _Sleipnir_ cruising through Colteron-infested space, some men were bound to bend under pressure.

Stay hydrated. Keep eating. Get some sleep. Take pills when you can't.

Frayed nerves weren't limited to this particular craft, either. When the _Sleipnir_ had rendezvoused with _Hypatia_ a week ago for an unexpected supply exchange and mechanical assessment, one of her officers had admitted that several of the crew members were experiencing similar symptoms, that one of the fighters had even slit his own wrists in the mess hall with a butter knife.

War was hard, they agreed. Not everybody was cut out for it.

Shame, that.

-

Abel woke up with a shout, eyes wide and breath shaky as he sat up and clutched the bed sheets with white knuckles. He visibly jumped when Cain touched his shoulder.

"Chill, princess," Cain chided him, but it was only half-hearted. "Just a dream. Go back to sleep."

Abel continued to sit there, though, only moving to rub the beads of sweat from his forehead.

Cain watched him warily but didn't say anything else, rolling one hand as he wished his cigarettes weren't all the way across the room.

Abel drew his knees to his bare chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. "It was so…" He shook his head and drew another shaky breath. "What a weird nightmare."

Cain frowned. "Not you too. I'm sick of hearing this shit from everyone. Stop worrying about it and go to bed. And try not to wake me up again."

Abel sighed, wishing for a bit of sympathy but well aware that Cain was Cain. Nodding, he wiggled his toes in the cold bedroom air and pulled the blanket back from where he had kicked it down in his sleep. He rolled onto his side and shut his eyes, willing himself to sleep. But his mind kept returning to his nightmare, to strange red symbols that stuck like hot brands in his mind, uniform in their crude, alien lines. Abel knew they were significant, if not why, the same way he knew that part of his dream lay just out of his memory's reach; fuzzy when it should have been strong, striking, there.

"Cain?" he asked suddenly, licking his lips and glancing over his shoulder at the man beside him. "Does the word 'convergence' mean anything to you?"

In the dark, Abel couldn't make out the way Cain's eyes widened momentarily, or the way his face paled in anxious recognition.

"No," the fighter lied. "Does the word 'sleep' mean anything to you?"

Abel gave a guilty, one-armed shrug. "Sorry."

"Whatever. Since we're both awake," Cain began with an eye roll, moving to straddled Abel, "and since I don't foresee you leaving me in fucking peace anytime soon, might as well make the most of it." He ran his hands across Abel's chest and planted heavy kisses along his throat, nipping when it suited him.

Abel leaned into those feelings, closing his eyes when Cain began to suck on the hollow of his throat. His thoughts still lingered on the markings – the warning? – he had seen in his nightmares, but as touches turned to caresses and sighs turned to moans, he let himself fall into the physical bliss that Cain was offering. It was only a dream, after all.

And Cain, who growled and kneaded and thrust with passion and familiarity, told himself that there was nothing to worry about; that the frantic whisper of _convergence_ hadn't been warring with his own dreams; that the times he had woken up to crashing waves of adrenaline after running for his life, always running, seeking, fleeing, never escaping those snapping, blade-like tendons and flayed limbs, slipping on blood, smelling the sharp clot of death, choking on the stench of swollen bodies and maimed friends, choking until you realized that oxygen was running out, that the breathing on your neck only foreshadowed teeth, jaws, elongated fangs; ripping, clawing, shredding, shrieking-

Cain told himself it couldn't be real.

Because how could it?

It was just stress.

Everything was fine.


	2. Only Meat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever and it's still short /sobs  
> For those of you who want to get a better idea about the Dead Space universe but don't want to brave the games, Netflix has an instant streaming of Dead Space: Downfall; it's not super accurate on all accounts, but it's entertaining.

When Cain awoke the next morning, he held his breath against the threat of lingering dreams. With each blink, he swore some flash of color remained, some glimpse of silhouettes and carnage. He shook his head to dispel the color, turning his head to peer at Abel. His eyes roamed the curves of his navigator’s face, looking for signs of restlessness. But Abel’s expression was relaxed, skin almost ghost white in the dim room.

Cain watched the way his chest rose and fell in a deep and steady rhythm, and not for the first time he took some small comfort in having Abel beside him. 

Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. 

Cain dressed quietly, taking extra time to brush his teeth and splash water on his face; in front of the mirror, he forced himself to look up, to catch and hold his own eyes. A shadow clung somewhere in their depths, and blinking did nothing to relieve the heaviness he felt. And then there were the flashes, the- “Nothing,” he said quietly to the glass. Nothing at all. 

Cain spared a last look for Abel before leaving for morning training. The halls were quieter than usual as he exited the barracks and entered the main levels of the ship. He passed more than one pair of fighter-navigator teams speaking in hushed tones. Several rubbed their temples, all looked tired. This whole thing was turning out to be one helluva clusterfuck. It wasn’t enough having to deal with the stress of a suicide mission in Colteron space; now they had some virus spooking morale and health alike. 

If it even was a virus, Cain wondered wryly.

A small group of navigators turned the corner in front of Cain, their hurried steps matching their anxious expressions. Each of them wore the customary white of their positions, but their uniforms were out of order, not quite as perfect as usual. They looked harried, Cain thought.

Before the group reached the end of the hall, Lieutenant Keeler stepped out from a nearby lift and signaled them over. “Which way?” he asked, shoulders back and tight. One of the navigators pointed in the direction from which they had traveled. “Over there, sir!” 

Before Keeler could reply, screaming suddenly sounded from around the corner. The lieutenant dropped all pretenses of formal engagement and he took off running toward the noise, his loose braid slipping like a white streamer in his wake. 

Cain watched him go, feeling a wave of unease that seemed to keep growing as the day went on. He gave the remaining navigators a confused scowl. “What the fuck?” he demanded, letting that speak for itself as the wailing down the hall continued. 

The shortest of the three, a shy looking man with a notebook held to his chest, gave a diminutive shrug. “A navigator, Epiales… He lost it.”

“Lost it?” Cain asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

The shorter man gave another shrug and looked away, wincing when the cries down the hall grew louder. 

Cain stared at the corner, letting wariness war with curiosity. He took a step toward the noise, and red flashed briefly in his vision. Shaking it off, he chided himself for being a coward and rounded the turn, letting his feet take him where instinct warned him against. 

The screaming spilled from the mouth of a single navigator, a thick-shouldered blonde who thrashed and howled as two medics and a startled fighter attempted to restrain him. Blood dribbled from the nose of one of the medics, staining crisp white uniforms with ugly smears of red in the struggle. The navigator’s mouth also bled, lower lip split, and his teeth continued to gnaw at the swollen flesh when he paused to breathe between shouts. 

“Make it stop! Make it stop!” he yelled, hands busy with reaching for his head and fighting off the men trying to restrain him. His nails dug shallow grooves into his scalp, nails catching on hair and skin. “Can’t you hear it? It’s calling- God, it’s here! Help me, help me…” 

Keeler was kneeling in front of him, trying to sound calm but stern. “Epiales, listen to me. You’re going to be okay. Calm down, navigator, that’s an order. You need to tell us what’s wrong.”

Epiales looked at Keeler with stricken eyes. “Don’t you hear? It’s in my head. It’s everywhere.”

“Epiales, stop. Just-” Keeler abruptly looked at one of the medics, eyes flashing with frustration. “He needs to be sedated. _Now_.”

“No,” Epiales suddenly whispered, going limp. Keeler stared at him in surprise, but the navigator’s gaze bore into the air above Keeler’s shoulder. “There’s no time. No time, little brother.”

Keeler snapped his fingers in front of Epiales’ face. “No time for what? Epiales? What brother?”

“So much blood,” the navigator whispered, starting to cry. “So much. Oh my God, I hear it. We’re meat. We’re meat,” he sobbed. 

As backup medics arrived with sedatives, Keeler stepped back, expression carefully blank but body tense. He glanced over and met Cain’s eyes as the rush of personnel carried on around them, a wall of non-forthcoming opinion in shades of gray and pale blonde. 

Cain stared back, trying to ignore the way his heart jumped when the crazed navigator began thrashing again. After a moment, unable to find answers in Keeler’s gaze, he turned on his heel and headed back. Creepy as fuck or not, Encke wouldn’t take this as an excuse for tardiness. 

Besides, he needed to talk to Deimos.


	3. From the Morgue

Abel ran. 

Somewhere, in the blur and haze of his mind, he knew he dreamt. But greater than this knowledge was the fear, the fright, the overwhelming certainty that he was being chased by a monster birthed by maliciousness and time. 

His steps took him to the fighter’s bay on the _Sleipnir_ , a place he was not entirely familiar with. Tables were overturned, and scraps of fighters’ suits were scattered across the floor, but the area was otherwise deserted. 

He hurried to the opposite door, his breath heavy in his chest. As he reached for the keypad, the wall began to hiss and drip; a red-tinged growth steadily crept across the door, tendrils like roots, its mass swelling and sprawling as it spread like some man-sized tumor, splitting open at bulging ends to dribble pus onto the floor. 

Abel jerked his hand away in horror, quickly backing up. He covered his mouth as the smell of fresh decay permeated the room. The mass over the door continued to bubble, and suddenly Abel could make out the hollow impression of eyes between layers of slick rot. 

With a startled yelp, he turned to run, but the previously deserted bay was covered in fresh smears of blood. Red adorned walls, ceiling, and floor, and Abel thought he could make out some sort of uniformity in the streaks, some hint of communication. But before he could focus on any of it, the floor heaved, matching his breaths with its own, until all at once it disappeared, and he was falling. Falling and falling, the stars rising up to greet him, the iciness of space filling his lungs, unintelligent but unforgiving, until he felt his mind slipping and there was nothing else to feel.

Abel awoke with a visible start, hands flying to his chest as he took quick, uneven breaths. The sheets were damp with sweat and tangled around him. “Just a nightmare,” he whispered thickly, mouth dry and bitter. “That’s it.”

To the left of the bed, his tablet flashed with a new message, pulsing green every few seconds. He reached over and shakily opened the message, eyes scanning without really seeing before he shook his head and read it again. 

All navigators were to report to medical for routine check-ups due to mission stress levels. Codenames A through C were scheduled for 0800 hour; codenames D through F were scheduled…

Abel scanned the rest of the message for anything important before glancing at the clock. 0724, which meant he had time for a quick shower and a bite to eat in the mess if he hurried.

He took a few settling breaths before kicking the covers to the end of the bed. There was no time to focus on dreams, he reminded himself, not when they were in Colteron space, not when he had so much important work to do re-configuring the engine types. He needed to focus, otherwise he’d be letting his comrades down, and he’d be putting Cain and himself in danger. And that was that. 

Newly motivated, Abel rinsed off -sparing a few minutes to shave and mentally sigh over Cain’s impressive assortment of hair care products occupying most of the bathroom counter- and changed into his standard uniform. With one last look at their room, he turned off the light and left. 

It was hard not to notice how unusually quiet the halls were. More than once, he met the gaze of some fighters, almost hoping one of them would curl a lip or toss a crude word, but even they seemed somewhat subdued. 

It was like everybody knew something was wrong, but nobody could pinpoint the fault, so tensions ran high and comfort came in numbers. It was like a pack mentality, Abel realized. 

When a familiar voiced called from behind, he felt a twinge of relief and wondered at that. 

“Abel! Hey, hold the lift!” Ethos piped, hurrying to step inside. “Man, am I glad to see you. This place is giving me the heebs this morning, you know? Everyone’s all wound up.”

Abel nodded knowingly. “I wish I could have walked with Cain, to be honest. What floor?”

“Oh. Five,” Ethos said, watching as Abel set the lift. “I get what you mean, though. I’d have walked with Praxis for the company and reassurance but,” he shrugged guiltily, “you know.”

“Still no luck with him?” Abel asked.

“No. But I’m not going to give up. I just, you know, might end up driving him crazy from all of my effort.”

The lift came to a stop as Abel smiled and shook his head. “It’ll all work out. Give it time.”

Ethos ran a hand through his unruly hair as he stepped into the hall. “Thanks. Anyway, I’ll see you later. I’ve been assigned to cover for Epiales.”

“Wait,” Abel stopped him, frowning with concern. “What’s wrong with Epiales? Is he sick too?”

Ethos’ eyes widened a fraction. “You didn’t hear?”

Abel shook his head, about to ask for the details, but a pair of fighters turned the corner and entered the lift. Quickly glancing at the time on his tablet, Abel stepped into the hall and joined Ethos as he walked to the lab. "Is he okay?" he asked with concern.

"Um, I don't think so, not really. I'm sorry. He sort of just... Well, I heard from Bazin that he started muttering all these weird things about letters and markers or something. Apparently he even got really aggressive with his fighter- you know, that big guy with the scar across his shoulder? The really tall one?"

Abel nodded, wanting Ethos to go on. 

"Anyway, his fighter tried to calm him down in the hall right outside the third floor training room, and he just lost it. Started screaming and hurting himself with his pen." Ethos shuddered, shaking his head briefly and unconsciously quickening his steps. "I can't imagine... They said it got pretty bad before Lieutenant Keeler and the medics stepped in."

"That's horrible," Abel breathed. “Do they know what caused, I mean…”

Ethos rolled his eyes. “Stress, like that’s news.” 

Neither of them looks convinced, their expressions turning grim. 

“What was he working on?” Abel finally asked.

“Eh. Nothing different from what we all have. He had an index on parts from when we converged with the _Hypatia_ last week, and a report on outdated engine schematics.”

“What?” Abel asked sharply, stopping abruptly. “What did you say?”

“Don’t worry, we’re not using them; they’ll probably be trashed when-”

“No, no,” Abel interrupted, unease threading fingers across his nerves. “Converged. You said ‘converged’. With the _Munera_.”

“Uh, yeah.” Ethos said with an odd look. “It’s just the word that came to mind. Weird, but it’s been in my head all day. Why? Did I use it wrong?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s-” Abel shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said at last, wondering at his own nervousness. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Ethos titled his head. “After your check-in with medical, you might want to get some rest. Speaking of which, aren’t you supposed to be there soon?”

Abel ran a hand over his tablet and winced at the glowing 0801. “Damn, I’m late. There goes breakfast.” He started to turn when Ethos grabbed his sleeve. 

“Wait,” the younger man said, pulling an apple from his jacket pocket. “Here. Better than nothing.”

“Thanks!” Abel took the fruit and waved with his free hand before jogging back toward the lift. If medical was going in alphabetical order, his name was going to be the first on their list. Which meant he had some angry nurses to look forward to. 

-

When Abel opened the door to medical, the sign-in room was empty. Fresh coffee steamed from a pot in the corner, and generic music played overhead, but the usual flurry of medics was absent. Besides personnel, there should’ve been about ten other navigators too. He was late, but only by a few minutes. Where was everyone else? 

With a confused little frown, he peered over the counter and noticed a random shuffling of paperwork on the floor. “Hello?” he called, then paused to listen. “Anyone?”

There was a muffled cry from the next room, followed by silence. Abel put his tablet and apple on the counter and walked to the door, hesitating. He knocked once, and the door was cold under his knuckles. “Hello?”

When he heard nothing else, he tentatively hit the open button. At the end of the hall, where the floor formed a T, Abel could make out strange gouges in the wall. They were jagged but parallel, each of them about a foot long. He stared at the scratches with a sense of unplaced dread, feeling his chest pull each breath heavier than before. He walked forward, each step slow but steady, aiming his way to the end of the hall, recognizing those gouges even though he told himself that he couldn’t, because dreams were dreams and that was all. 

A moan suddenly broke the silence, and Abel ran the last few feet. In the hallway to the right, a navigator sat against the wall, face bloodied and left arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Scraps of flesh hung from his shoulders and upper chest, as though something had done its best to gnaw through him. “Oh God,” Abel whispered, crouching in front of the navigator, uselessly moving his hands as he tried to recall his studies in first aid, as if the basics covered anything like this. “Aureus, what happened?” he asked frantically, quietly, applying pressure to the deepest of the gashes in the navigator’s shoulder. 

“Abel,” he whispered, breathing hard. “Monsters. From the morgue. Monsters.”

“What do you- Like, animals? Colterons?” 

Aureus shook his head, wincing when the effort cost him. He finally lifted his hand to point further down the hall; Abel followed his gaze to the smears of blood lining the floor, smears that looked suspiciously like drag marks. As he stared, a growl sounded from another room, a guttural, wet-sounding noise that cut through the air. 

“Run,” Aureus gasped, breaths hitching, becoming shorter. 

“Stay with me!” Abel quietly commanded, lightly patting Aureus’ face. “I’m going to get help. Aureus!”

The growling continued, followed by a bizarre clicking noise, like blades snapping together, and the navigator sagged. 

Abel felt his heart lurch. He backed away, unable to tear his gaze from the navigator’s ripped body, when the lights suddenly flickered. Feeling fear like energy, Abel turned to run when he saw it, a large figure at the end of the opposite hall, an angry shape hosting inhuman limbs and large, scythe-like blades at the ends of its wrist, flesh peeled back from its mouth, red tongue protruding from broken incisors. Medical clothes hung from its disjointed body, streaming like ribbons as it took a lurching step forward. 

Abel kept still, heart raging in his chest, eyes darting as he tried to gauge the distance to the exit. The monster stilled, quivering in place, and as Abel looking into its sunken eyes, he knew he saw eagerness. 

The monster paused, waiting for its prey to start the game of chase.

Abel ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! If you're interested in the Dead Space plot but don't want to brave the games, I recommend the Netflix animated movies. They're on Instant Watch, and they're pretty entertaining. Warnings for violence, however.


	4. Cut Off Their Limbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _so_ sorry this took me so long to update. I know this story doesn't have a large following, but I still feel guilty for making a few of you wait so long. From now on, I'm going to try to update regularly, but the chapters may be on the short-side because of it.

Fear could make a man fast. 

Abel’s felt tightness in his lungs as he sprinted forward, demanding speed and coordination from a split second burst of adrenaline. Instinct made his skin prickle, and muscle memory built from something _old_ and _deep_ and _primordial_ told him he was running straight toward danger, straight against those snapping blades and that flesh-torn grin. But Abel knew if he didn’t make it around the corner in time, he’d be stuck in medical bay, stuck with this monster and the foreign sounds in the hallways behind him. 

The creature did not waver, and Abel did not know if it was intelligence or bloodlust that caused it to run, but they reached the junction at nearly the same instant. Abel threw his weight to the side, feeling his balance slip on the neatly swept floor, and he scrambled for better footing and another burst of speed just as a bladed limb swung at the space over his head. Shouting, unable to keep quiet when his pulse was loud in his ears and terror overrode all functions but flight, he pushed off the corner and darted forward. 

The exit door was only thirty feet ahead, and desperation made him focus on it with something akin to tunnel-vision. He panted, eyes wide, fingers reaching for the door panel out of reach, when blunt pain suddenly struck his back as the monster’s flailing sprint toppled him over. 

He crashed to the floor with a started yelp, rolling himself over in a tangle of shaking limbs. The monster shrieked, the sound shrill and wet and almost gleeful. Up close, Abel could see the way its jaw was broken off, how its top incisors were yellowed and elongated. It lurched forward, bending unnaturally as though its spine were crooked, and Abel kicked out in his fright; the bottom of his boot made a crunching sound as it met the beast’s nose, but its only response was to growl; angry, hissing, its eyes narrowed, the small digits along its extended arms twitching and snapping. 

Abel crawled backward, trapping himself behind the check-in counter. Papers made his hands slide on the floor, but he only whimpered, pushing himself against the wall, curling his body underneath the desk as his senses, wired and frantic, stole logic.

The monster prowled forward, unhurried, almost lazy as it lifted one razor-sharp appendage to slaughter. Abel couldn’t look away, thinking, over and over, _I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what’s about to kill me._

But there was a shout, and a noise like flesh caving (a squelch, a slick snap, a sour scrape), and the monster was suddenly barreled to the side. Abel peered from under the desk to see Porthos swing a chair down on the creature’s chest, cursing and grunting from the effort as the monster began to writhe on its back. One of its flailing blades sliced the back of Porthos’ thigh, and the bulky navigator let out a strangled cry before he stomped on the offended limp, putting his weight onto the joint where arm met shoulder, the bottom of his white boot coming away with strings of blood and tissue; and as the creature began to shriek, incensed instead of pained, Porthos heaved the chair once more. “Son of a _bitch_."

“The head,” Abel croaked, swallowing before he found volume. “The head! Try crushing the head!” 

Porthos didn’t hesitate, swinging the plastic and metal down on the monster’s skull with as much force as he could. There was a crunch, and brain matter splattered across the floor. Still, the creature kicked out, its remaining arm swiping blinding in the air, and Porthos struck it twice more before it finally stilled. 

Everything was quiet for a moment, the silence only truly interrupted by their heavy, nervous breathing, and Porthos leaned against the wall. His face was pale, blanched, and he looked at the mass of gore at his feet like he might throw up. He kept a tight grip on the mangled chair, though. 

“Porthos,” Abel began timidly, having not left his corner, but the other navigator interrupted. 

“What the fuck is that thing? Where did it come from?” he asked exhaustedly, his words slightly shaky. 

“I don’t know. I just showed up for my evaluation. It was here, it- Aureus," Abel moaned. "Aureus is dead. I don’t know about the others. If you hadn’t shown up when you did…”

Porthos closed his eyes, still breathing deeply. “Fucking migraine,” he explained. “Already made me throw up. Just wanted some pills.”

Abel found himself staring at the butchered monster again, tracing the unnatural breaks in its anatomy, the way its long legs were meant for speed, its body twisted and distorted. He thought he saw a gap in its stomach, some suggestion of extra, stunted limbs, but he looked away before he could think about it too much. Instead, he glanced at the red spot slowly spreading across Porthos’ thigh, letting concern replace nausea. “Your leg. Are you alright?”

Porthos shifted his weight experimentally and grimaced. “It stings. But it’s not bleeding very much. I’ll be fine.” He lifted one of his boots and looked sickened by the way it dripped. “You? You hurt?”

Abel paused, finally letting himself become aware, to take account of what he was feeling. “My back hurts. But I think it’s only bruised.” He realized he was still standing behind the desk, and he suddenly felt like a coward, small and weak even compared to the other navigator. “Porthos, I’m so sorry. I just stayed here…”

The ceiling panels abruptly rattled with weight, and there was the faint scratching of metal on metal before the noise quickly traveled to a different room. 

Porthos stared up in horrified disbelief, oblivious to the way his mohawk glistened with small chunks of flesh. “No time for that,” he told Abel quietly, his voice barely raised above a murmur. “Whatever they are, they're in the ventilation. We need to warn everyone.”

Abel nodded, his voice lost in his dry throat, and he thought he heard hissing resume from down the hallways again. 

“Come on,” Porthos ordered sharply, letting loose of the chair as he sprinted toward the exit. 

Abel hurried after him, wondering how fear could make a man run so fast.


	5. The Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to A2 for allowing me to use some of her OC's. I hope I do them justice!

“Alright, men, you have a one minute breather,” Encke told the line of panting fighters, his amber gaze cool and measuring as he looked at each of his soldiers. “We’ll be spending the next hour on conditioning, so use your breath wisely.”

Several men shuffled uneasily, well aware that they were being exercised to discourage gossip over the morning’s events. News of Epiales had spread like wildfire, swelling until the tale was warped, fueled by exaggeration and nervousness. Morpheus, Epiales’ fighter, was absent. 

Cain stood near the end of the line, quietly regaining his breath. He leaned back and peered at the others, suspicious without really knowing why; from the tight-jawed way the other fighters stared ahead, he knew he wasn’t the only one. But there was a tightness in his shoulders and a tingling in his legs, a sense of something being wrong. 

Deimos, standing immediately to the left, glanced up at Cain with a frown. He looked hesitant, pensive.

“Well?” Cain whispered, watching to make sure Encke didn’t notice. When there was no mumbled reply or twitch in his periphery, Cain scowled and looked back. “Well?” he repeated irritably. 

Deimos shook his head by way of answer; his confusions were the same as everyone else’s. Medical wasn’t releasing information, and nobody knew what to make of the incident. “Lots of headaches,” he rasped. “Lots of nightmares.” 

“No shit, kid,” Cain scoffed. “Tell me something I don’t-”

“Would you shut up?” Praxis snapped from his place down the line, massaging his temple with one hand. 

Cain’s upper lip curled in a silent snarl, but his comeback died on his tongue as he gave Praxis a quick once-over. The broad, crooked-nosed fighter was sweating heavily, and the skin around his mouth was pale and pinched, throat tight like he was fighting down nausea. His remaining eye was shadowed from lack of sleep. “You look like shit,” Cain told him, but the words didn’t hold their usual malice. 

“Reliant!” Encke barked. “Enough chit-chat. Minute’s up.” He nodded when every man straightened, pleased, at least, that they worked as an obedient unit. “We’re going to run laps. This isn’t a race; I want a nice, easy jog," he told them.

The fighters made their way to the track and fell into a steady lope, beginning the lap in rows of two or three as they kept their friends by their sides. It wasn’t a conscious thing, Encke figured, but they looked like small packs that way. Running alongside trusted comrades, keeping a few feet of distance from everyone else. It was strange, he thought, but he didn’t tell them to line up properly.

It was a quiet run, an easy stretch for their endurance. The first lap was completed without incident, as was the second.

Then Hermes stopped running.

“No breaks!” Encke stated firmly, expecting compliance, but the dark Irishman stayed where he was, shoulders hunched and head bowed, indifferent to the other fighters as they ran around him with scowls. There had been a few disciplinary issues among the fighters during the first few weeks aboard the _Sleipnir_ , but nothing as bold as this, nothing like flat-out disrespect. 

“Hermes,” Encke warned, his words edged by cool anger, “get your ass moving.”

There was no reply, no sign that Hermes had heard at all. The other fighters began to slow down, eyeing the scene like a cautious flock of crows, dark eyes and dark hair, wary and speculative. Encke spared them a frown, but it was brief. Cassius, his second lieutenant, followed Encke as he approached the insubordinate fighter. 

“Soldier,” Encke started to say, but Hermes snapped his head up like he had been jolted, and his sudden grin was feral.

“Bodies,” he hissed gleefully, right before he lunged, hands reaching for Encke's throat. 

Experience was the only thing that allowed Encke to step aside quickly enough; he gripped one of Hermes’ outstretched arms by the wrist and twisted the limb back, using the fighter's momentum to his advantage. “The hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled.

Cassius hovered nearby, tense and grim-faced. “Sir?” he asked loudly, waiting for an order. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the rest of the fighters, startled and muttering, formed a hesitant half-circle.

Before Encke could answer, Hermes grinned over his shoulder, manic and twitching. He snapped once at the air, teeth clicking sharply, swinging his gaze over the rest of the room before staring back at Encke. “Goin’ to rip yer throat out,” he said confidently.

“If you so much as move a fucking muscle, I’ll break your arm,” Encke warned him, knuckles whitening. 

Hermes cackled, a thin string of saliva between his teeth. “Only bone,” he crooned, and then there was the loud, audible crack of his humerus snapping as he threw his weight around. Shrieking a combination of pain and excitement, Hermes rammed his head forward, hitting Encke just above the brow line. 

Cassius quickly intervened, tackling Hermes with a grunt, separating him from the lieutenant. They rolled, each one struggling to overpower the other, before a few fighters hurriedly ran over to help. 

Hermes was pulled down in a tangle of limbs, throwing his weight every way he could, slinging his broken arm as if it were merely an object to strike with. He growled and cursed and thrashed, using nails to scratch, teeth to bite and tear. It was only when Cassius punched him across the face that Hermes quieted, blinking unfocused eyes, licking his split, bloodied lips as though dazed. 

“He’s lost it,” somebody muttered, and Hermes only laughed again. 

Encke wiped blood from his face with a grimace. “Dante,” he ordered, nodding at the fighter in question. “Get the MPs. Make sure they… Praxis, son, what the hell?”

Praxis looked up from the floor, wondering when he had made the conscious decision to sit down. “Sir, I…” Don’t feel well, he thought, reasoned, tried to say. Instead, he leaned forward and gagged, shoulders heaving, breath catching, before he vomited over his own boots. 

“Fuck, man!” Cain griped, stepping away with the others.

Hermes laughter grew louder. 

Encke looked back and forth between the two and shook his head. He kept his tone and posture confident, relying on himself even if the situation felt out of hand. “Oberon, escort Praxis to medical. Everyone else, I want you to-”

The overhead lights suddenly flickered, dousing the room in intermittent darkness. Deimos stepped closer to Cain, butterfly knife in hand, as the rest of the fighters seemed to hold their breaths anxiously. 

As if to answer their baited questions, a scream sounded from behind the exit door. 

“They want our bodies,” Hermes told them quietly, affectionately. 

“Quiet,” Encke snapped, and the lights flickered again. He looked his men over disbelievingly, wondering what they were about to face, wondering if they were about to fight themselves. He motioned to Oberon, who kept a hand on Praxis’ trembling shoulder, then back to the men restraining Hermes. “Bind him. The rest of you- find your navigators, and defend the ship. We might be under attack.”

"From what?" Cain asked guardedly.

"I don't know."


	6. Acidity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's still reading this then you know by now I'm terrible at updating, sorry.

When the lights dimmed for the second time, Ethos wasn’t the only one to nervously glance around. Computers and data pads continued to hum in soft resonance with the ship, but several screens flickered, casting faces in unsteady green light. 

“It’s just interference from a nearby geomagnetic storm,” Copernicus informed them from the main terminal, hands crossed behind his back as he oversaw the navigators in Keeler’s absence. Despite Copernicus’ sharp stare, Ethos didn’t think he sounded very confident. “Back up your work frequently until we’ve passed it.”

“Interference, my ass,” Phobos griped quietly from one seat down. “More like outdated equipment, ugh.” 

A few of the other navigator’s grumbled replies to that, but soon enough the soft sounds of working resumed. Ethos’ own hands flittered over his electric data with ease; habit kept his work in progress, but his thoughts rested elsewhere, on Epiales, his failed efforts with Praxis, and the nervous way some of the navigators were fidgeting. 

“What the hell is his problem?” Phobos muttered, and Ethos blinked in confusion before swiveling his chair to follow Phobos’ judgmental frown. 

Icarus, a tall and lithely built navigator two rows over, was staring at his screen in disbelief, eyes wide and nostrils flaring from short, quick breaths. The navigator next to Icarus, Puck, leaned over to check the screen, shrugging at the display of usual schematics. “You alright, hon?”

Icarus shook his head; the movement was slow at first, then became quick and frantic. “I saw…” he croaked, had to clear his throat, “thought I saw something.” 

“What?” Copernicus asked, walking over as he caught on to the disruption. 

“I don’t know,” Icarus confessed, but sweat began to bead at his temples. “Nothing, I guess.”

A few of the navigators gave him wary looks, like they recognized something in his stare, some resonance of warning, some tremor of instinct. 

Ethos thought that it was like watching horses, the way nervousness could travel through a single animal’s sudden posture and infect the rest. 

Copernicus shook his head. “Go get some water. And make sure you mention this to medical later.” He waved a hand in dismissal, giving the monitor one quick suspicious glance before likewise dismissing the data for what it was. 

“Speaking of medical,” Ethos timidly asked, “shouldn’t D through F have been called by now? The first group has been gone a while.”

“Porthos probably made a huge scene over his headache,” Phobos joked, but several men began to repeat Ethos’ question with their own curious comments. 

“I’m sure the next group will be called soon,” Copernicus assured them, raising his voice just enough to cut off chatter. “Until then, we don’t need idle gossip.”

Screens began to flicker once more, distorting script into jagged and extended symbols. The room quieted as the navigators watched, and more than one man squinted as if seeing something else. Then, as abruptly as the flickering began, it ceased, and the room was doused in darkness as the power cut off. 

“Oh hell,” Copernicus muttered, abandoning his professionalism with a drawn out sigh. 

Spooked, a handful of navigators stood, and there were grumbled and nervous complaints as they stumbled in the darkness. 

Ethos tried to keep his breathing controlled even as he leaned closer to Phobos. 

“Does anybody have a tablet to get some light?” someone asked. 

“I do,” Puck offered helpfully, and tapped his fingers along the desk as he tried to locate it. 

“Why isn’t the backup system kicking in?” 

“There’s no way a magnetic storm should short us out like this.”

“Ugh, Ethos, quit breathing like that, it’s creepy.”

“Sorry, Phobos.”

“Here we go!” Puck said, his cheery tone only ruined by a slight, nervous waver as his tablet lit up; his face became illuminated by an inoffensive green glow.

“Okay,” Copernicus started, drawing their attention once more, though his features were still largely shadowed. “I can hear the ship’s normal hum. Things should be fine elsewhere. Puck, if you’ll stand by the door so we don’t break our necks trying to find our way out?”

Before Puck could reply, there was a loud metallic thump as something moved in the overhead ventilation. All eyes immediately moved to the lit-up paneling above Puck’s head. 

“What was that?” Phobos whispered.

Puck took a step backward, unnerved by the way the tablet allowed light to single him out. He squinted at the ceiling, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “The grating… I think I can see something-”

With a screech of metal, the paneling suddenly collapsed, dust and wires and something else falling with it, and Puck found himself staring up into the green-lit, jawless face of a monster. For a moment, nobody moved, and the only sounds were that of anxious breathing. Anticipation transformed the room into some macabre tableau as man and beast waited to see what the other was.

"It's wearing a medical sleeve," someone realized aloud, and just like that the spell was broken, and the mass of twisted, distended appendages growled and lunged at Puck.

The room erupted into a cacophony of shouts and toppled desks as men frantically pushed their way through toward the exit. More than one fell in the rush, and faceless navigators were stepped on in the dark. 

Ethos felt a sharp tug on his arm, heard Phobos shout at him to run. He couldn’t move though, couldn’t look away or even blink as he watched the creature knock Puck to the ground with one brutal swing of a disjointed arm. Fear had him rooted to the floor, terror warring with his ability to flee. He heard other cries, too, a horrible mingling of Puck’s screams and the monster’s guttural grunting. Somewhere behind him, Phobos finally gave up, finally gave in to his own fear and ran to the now open door, and still Ethos stood. 

The monster reared its head back, an unnatural bulge in its abdomen pulsating and dripping, its eyes like pits in its face, black impressions that blended in with the darkness. 

Puck was crawling backward, too startled to stand and very much alone against the nightmare until suddenly he wasn’t, as Copernicus seized his arms and hoisted Puck to his feet. “Run!” Copernicus bellowed, the whites of his eyes stark against the black room –like a horse’s, Ethos vaguely thought, like a frightened horse’s – before he shoved Puck toward the door, just as the monster’s stomach rolled once more. Body quivering, it sprayed bile from its mouth, thick, mucous-like fluid that soaked Copernicus’ face and chest. 

The screaming that followed sounded inhuman, but Ethos knew it came from Copernicus’ mouth. The pain warped cries were accompanied by the sizzling sound of flesh as his nose and lips began to melt, flesh dripping with streams of blood as his cheeks caved and his gums began to recede. He collapsed within moments, but his howling continued long afterward. 

Encouraged, the monster lurched around, hissing at the light from the doorway as it swiveled its gaze across the rest of the dark room. 

Ethos wondered if he was going to be next, if he’d scream just like Copernicus, but suddenly Puck was pushing him with small, shaking hands.

“Ethos!” His voice was nearly lost as alarms finally sounded. “Move! We h-have to run!” He gave another push, trying to kick-start movement into frozen legs. Behind him, Copernicus finally stilled, and the monster twitched as it made its slow way toward them.

Ethos met the creature’s gaze and found his sense of flight; he stumbled after Puck, awkward and stiff the first few steps, then sprinting as fear seized his muscles. They fled the lab. 

Left alone, the monster grunted and snorted, silenced only when another ceiling panel collapsed and it was joined by something that slithered rather than walked.


	7. Trails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mirax3163 was super kind enough to sketch a blueprint of the ship based on an outline I sent her. 

“It’s too quiet,” Abel whispered, squinting down the hall where a single light flickered on and off. The bright yellow glare took turns with surrounding darkness. 

Porthos didn’t have anything to say to that. Didn’t want to say anything, really, because as nerve wracking as the silence was – and no, he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the quiet was too thick, too heavy and unnatural, like something purposely coaxing – he hated the way their voices carried more. Hated the way the hallway dragged out every murmur, made whispers into traceable echoes. And in the walls, all around them, the _Sleipnir_ continued its steady-soft thrum, indifferent. 

Their sprint from the medical ward had taken them three halls over, deeper into the bowels of the third floor of the ship and toward the lift. When the lights had gone out, a departure accompanied by some circuit-voiced groan, the navigators had tempered their pace toward caution. 

“I don’t like this. We should’ve come across somebody else by now,” Abel insisted. “This is a fully populated warship. We should’ve–”

Somewhere along the lines of his training, Porthos was sure the manuals had covered the necessity of patience. Probably. It didn’t matter. He purposely stepped into Abel’s path, knocking into the other navigator, who let out a surprised huff as he stumbled. 

“What was that for?”

“Just shut up,” Porthos griped, though quietly. 

Abel’s mouth thinned, and his dark eyes were sharp. He glared like he had something to say, but after a moment he just nodded and resumed walking. Which was good, Porthos thought, because Abel had nothing on Phobos’ sass, and after years of dealing with that pretentious bitch, Porthos considered himself a professional in tuning complaints out. 

Abel, for his part, just tried to ignore the way their steps sounded so isolated; and Porthos’, under the weight of his wound, were staggered.

They reached the elevator just as the overhead power faltered again. Abel counted the seconds they were bathed in darkness, forcing himself not to shift his feet as they waited. Finally, the lights returned – _after four seconds_ , Abel thought, _four long seconds_ – and they were both left staring at a soft red light that blinked around the lift’s entry panel. 

Porthos reached a tentative hand out, fingers, swathed in that aggressive glow, hovering above the Open screen. “Locked?” he breathed, like it was a personal offense. “How can it be _fucking locked?_ ” 

Abel shook his head. “The power outages could have redirected security. Or maybe someone already knows about the… creatures. Maybe they’re trying to keep the things contained to this floor.”

Porthos’ glare was incredulous, but a clatter from around the corner, the sound of metal bouncing off metal, made him hold his tongue; they stood, frozen in place, a picture of blonde hair and pale skin awash in that obstinate red light. When no other noise followed, Porthos let out a shaky breath. “It doesn’t matter,” he hissed, barely voicing the words, “These things are in the ventilation, which means they don’t need the fucking lifts to access other floors. But unless we think of something, we’re stuck, and the morgue-” He stopped, clenched his teeth, remembered how that monster had worn the scraps of a medic’s uniform, how its skull had caved like clay under his strikes, felt his stomach drop as his mind grasped at some connection. “We’re boxed in by the morgue and a shit-ton of storage space. So we either get this elevator back online or find a maintenance ladder down to the flight deck.” He didn’t want to think of the alternative, didn’t want to imagine standing around with the not-silence of the humming _Sleipnir_ , trapped like some animal at the leisure of an unknown number of monsters. 

Abel hummed in soft agreement and tried recall the schematics he had studied before transferring ships. “There should be computer station on this floor. I know medical has its own system-”

“No way in hell are we going back there.”

“-but there should be another for simple operations. Maintenance has one on each floor.” 

“Can it get the lift running?”

“I don’t know,” Abel confessed. “But it may be our best bet at this point.” 

Porthos grunted, displeased by the lack of reassurance, even if Abel was right and it was their only option. 

“How’s your leg?” Abel asked suddenly.

Porthos twisted around to look at the back of his thigh. “Mostly stopped bleeding. Fucker left one hell of an impression me, though,” he whispered wryly. 

(Yet his thoughts betrayed him, told him how things could have been much worse if that creature’s blade-like arm had managed to cut deeper, if he hadn’t had the advantage of surprise in attacking first. Even with its chest crushed and one limb nearly ripped from the socket, the monster had thrashed with some visceral desire to maim. He wondered what would happen if he had to face one of those things head-on and without a weapon.

He wondered how long he’d be able to last.)

Abel snorted, then smiled unexpectedly, the expression small and fleeting. “I never thought I’d say this, but you remind me of Cain, a little.” 

When Porthos turned toward him, it was slow, as if the movement took effort, and the glower he cast Abel was full of disgust. Only when Abel had the decency to look sheepish did Porthos start walking down the hall. 

They didn’t have to walk long to find blood. 

Intermittent streaks and pools of red preceded them on the floor, a messy, ominous trail that started at a discreet ladder and continued further down the hall where the shadows clung. Two sets of crimson footprints followed along. 

Porthos cast one look at the blood before shaking his head and grabbing the nearest ladder rung. 

“Wait,” Abel insisted, unable to tear his gaze away from the prints. “Whoever left those, they obviously need help.” 

Porthos scoffed. “They’re on their own. We have our way off this floor.” 

“We can’t just leave them behind!” Abel hissed. “And besides, we don’t know for sure if this ladder leads to the flight deck. Could be to whatever hurt those two in the first place.” 

Hesitation strengthened Porthos’ grip, his knuckles whitening. He glanced down into the black mouth of the ladder’s descent, then back to the hallway, following the sloppy lines of blood. “Abel,” he whispered, for once unable to keep all the nervousness out of his voice. “I’ve got a bad feeling about being here.” 

The monster. It’s human-like eyes. The tattered remains of a uniform clinging to moist flesh. 

Abel leveled a stare like steel, steadiness contrived by determination. “You can go,” he said quietly, slowly. “I understand. But if the rest of the ship is locked down, I might be able to access clearance from the computer station. And those guys need help.” 

And Porthos thought, _oh shit_ , because he wasn’t going down that ladder alone. 

“Okay… Okay, let’s go.” 

They followed the blood, wariness keeping their pace slow, until it led them to the far end of the ship, where they could see, in the distance, like some pulsing red beacon, the locked door that went down to the morgue. And to their right, through a glass framed entryway, a short line of computers cast color on a solitary figure.

He was haggard, eyes dull even though the monitors were so bright, dull when his still-baby-fat cheeks were shining with blood. His hands shook, and he kept them slightly raised, as if he couldn’t make himself relax, couldn’t curl his fingers when they were wet and dripping. On the ground in front of him, in a crumpled heap, lay the owner of the second set of footprints. 

Smoke curled, twisted, and danced away from dry lips and the cherry-red end of one cigarette before Vicks greeted them with a tired drawl. “Hello, boys. Fancy seeing you here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're new to the Starfighter fandom or just weren't a part of all the trolling that went on last year, Vicks is the maintenance guy from Chapter 2, Page 50. http://starfightercomic.com/chapter_02_page.php?page=Chapter_02_Page_49.jpg The running non-canon joke is that he's the ship's go-to guy for inappropriate shenanigans and contraband of any kind.


	8. Lighting Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mirax3163 was super kind enough to sketch a blueprint of the ship based on an outline I sent her. 

It was Porthos who answered first, easy words from a tight jaw. “Any of that blood yours?”

Vicks glanced downward at his red-soaked uniform; he found himself missing the garish orange it used to be. “Not much of it,” he answered at last, slowly and hesitantly, his fingers still twitching in the air.

Then Abel noticed the plasma cutter, a simple but effective engineering weapon that could generate a pulse stream of ionized plasma to cut metal. And other things, he realized, feeling his stomach roll as he looked at the torn body on the floor. There was a charge in the air, a faint smell of singed skin and hair, and the plasma cutter’s three sight-lasers twinkled harmlessly against a nearby monitor.

Porthos didn’t look as wary as Abel felt, but he stayed in the doorway. “What happened?”

Vicks licked his lips and drew a shaky breath. His back was straight, rigid. “Kellion attacked me. One minute we get a call to check out system errors, next thing I know we’re hearing weird noises and then he- he lunges at me, screaming nonsense and clawing at my neck. Guy fucking lost it.” He finally wiped his hands on his pants, smearing the mess across his palms. Sweat dripped from his hairline down one side of his face, clearing a line of blood. He laughed, but the sound was forced, uneasy. “I know you’ve always joked that hallucinogenics would be the death of me, man, but the shit I’ve seen this week…”

Porthos snorted and finally took a seat at one of the stations, seeking rest even if the tense line of his shoulders never eased. “What the fuck is going on, Vicks?”

Abel looked curiously between the two, surprised by the familiarity in their exchange. “Do you know each other?”

Porthos merely shrugged, but Vicks’ answering smile was telling, albeit shaky. “Porthos here has a real taste for the finer things in life, you know?” He exhaled through pursed lips before his expression grew self-deprecating. “And some of the less than finer things, you might say.”

Abel looked to Porthos for some kind of explanation, but the man only scowled past his coloring cheeks and repeated himself. “What’s happening?”

Vicks’ humor disappeared, crushed under the weight of reality. Darkened by the shadows that clung to his eyes. Wordlessly, he reached over and tapped a few keys, and the idling computer screens suddenly revealed different rooms across the _Sleipnir_.

They saw mayhem.

Every screen showed savagery like an evolutionary process; men running and screaming; predators leaping from the walls; slashes and bites, rips and tears. Soldiers fought, and soldiers died. And corpses were transformed, reanimated by slithering beasts who pumped biochemical changes into the DNA of fallen men.

Porthos, Abel and Vicks watched in silence, each of them feeling separate but harmonious terror. They wore disbelief like they _wanted_ it, like denial might remove the threat, lessen the violence, but their fear was more, overriding and enlightening.

Abel had to swallow before he spoke; he recognized those who were being slaughtered, called some of them friends. “They’re… being turned. The monsters are _us_.”

Vicks nodded and pulled up another screen; video feed showed fighters being attacked in the lifts as they tried to flee the gym and head for the flight deck. “The navigator labs were attacked first,” Vicks murmured, lighting up another cigarette without thinking about it. He changed feeds, pulling up a security schematic. “See this line? It connects medical to the labs above and below. This is where we are, and this,” he pointed at a series of flashing dashes, “is the malfunction Kellion and I were responding to.”

“Right above the morgue,” Abel realized, and Porthos blanched.

“Bingo.” Vicks flicked the end of his cigarette and chewed on his lower lip; smoke curled away from his nostrils. “My guess is that all of this started there. Then the aliens, or whatever they are, traveled through the vents, along this shaft, and made their way to Floor 5.”

“Do you think this is some attack? A pre-planned virus or- something?” Porthos asked uneasily. “Without those labs, we lose our entire intelligence system.”

Vick didn’t mull it over very long; his eyes reflected the live feed, the ongoing maimings. “They don’t look like they have a plan to me,” he muttered.  On-screen, the one of the creatures roared, spittle flying from a swollen tongue, its movements twitching and bestial. “Honestly, I think they just went for the highest concentration of noise and people. Which is why the fighters are now getting the worst of it.”  

They watched as a group of fighters wrestled one of the monsters to the floor, watched as a set of long, broken teeth ripped out the throat of the nearest black-clad solider.

“That’s Bazin’s fighter,” Abel croaked, and his observation was immediately followed by Porthos’ bilious, “Turn that shit off.”

Vicks changed every screen to series of blueprints. His smoke shortened.

Abel fidgeted. He popped his knuckles, swallowed tightly, and found his eyes trained on the plasma cutter. “The malfunction you were going to investigate- could it have caused the elevators to lock?”

Vicks shrugged. “Maybe. Probably.”

"If we can get off this floor, we can reach the others; we'll be safer in a group." Abel paused, added quietly, "I have to find Cain."

“There’s no point,” Porthos told him. “Your fighter isn’t going to last any longer than the rest of them.”

“You don’t know that-”

“Fuck if I don’t! You saw the same video as me. Some of them aren’t even armed!”

“I can still try. I’m sure as hell not going to assume the worst. Aren’t you even worried about Phobos?”

Porthos rolled his eyes, but before he could reply, Vicks interrupted, dragging out the words in his foreign drawl. “As dangerous as it will be, we need to get to the flight deck. We have to get off the _Sleipnir_ before it’s too late.”

Abel and Porthos exchanged looks, then Porthos scowled. “What do you know, Vicks? You’re not telling us something. What the fuck is all this?”

Another cigarette, another shaky light. “Just… rumors.” He blinked once, twice, slowly, deliberating his words. “This isn’t my first rodeo in Colteron space. Shit gets around, and there have been stories. Tales of the same thing we’ve been seeing, of monsters, of crews going mad, never making it back.” He frowned, chewing on the end of his cigarette before inhaling. “Just ghost stories! That’s all I thought they were. Legends to spook rookies.”

“But what caused this?” Abel insisted. “Is this an attack, or something else? I’ve never heard of anything remotely like this.”

“I’m not sure. But… Fuck,” Vicks whispered suddenly. “ _Fuck_. That rendezvous with _Hypatia_ last week. I traded contraband with some of their crew. They told me about some of the shit that had been going on. One guy apparently cut his own throat with a butter knife. It’s like it spread or something. A contagion or- or, _fuck_.”

“Why did we rendezvous?” Porthos asked quietly, suspicion stealing his brass.

Vicks’ laugh was short and bitter. “Supply exchange and ‘mechanical evaluation’, like our own engineers didn’t know what they were doing. It was a piss poor excuse, but it’s not my place to say so; not any of maintenance’s place to challenge central command.”

“Check the logs,” Abel suggested. “Find out what we picked up.”

Vicks motioned to one of the computers. “Be my guest. I doubt you’ll find anything through this station, not down here.”

Abel nodded, thinking along the same lines, but he began typing anyway.

Porthos watched Vicks burn through another stick. He suddenly craved his own, and when he motioned silently, Vicks kindly passed one over.

“Amazing,” Vicks murmured after he lit up, almost fondly, “how easy it is to rob you fuckers of your cigarettes when you’re high; you Earth boys can’t ride your drugs.”

Porthos grimaced at that, knew he had been the victim once or twice to inebriated gambling. “I’d gladly go sober if someone could wake me up from this mess.”

Vicks grunted and glanced back to the plasma cutter; his eyes followed the inoffensive lasers, reflecting blue. “Convergence.”

Abel flinched; the typing paused, resumed.

Vicks tracked the movement with a subtle glance, then turned back to Porthos, who looked like he was trying to remember something important. “It’s been in your heads lately, hasn’t it? In your dreams. Your nightmares.

“All the aggression and anxiety attacks, they’re like some pernicious infection. You’ve been feeling it lately. We all have. Nausea. Headaches.” Porthos looked away, and Vicks went on like he hadn’t seen. “Everybody tried to pretend it was just stress, but that’s bullshit. Men have been breaking down all week. We pay attention, you know? Us maintenance. We're around when you guys don't think we are; we're here even if you ignore us. You've all been twitchy, eyeing each other like nervous animals. And everyone's feeling the same way. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong _with us_. Sometimes, when I’m by myself, I swear I can hear…” His stare grew distanced, and his lips continued to move, spreading words on whispers, before he shook his head. “We have to get to the flight deck. We have to get off the ship.”

Abel’s tone was small. “I can’t access anything from the exchange with the _Hypatia_. I’d have to get to the CIC.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Porthos reasoned without bite. “Vicks is right. We need to reach the deck. That’ll be your best chance to find Cain, too.” _And Phobos_ , he thought.

“First we need to get those elevators back online. Unless we can use one of those ladders?”

Vicks shook his head. “Nah, that’ll only lead us further into storage from here.” He sighed and ran one hand over his face, then grimaced at the stickiness. “I’ll get the doors back online.”

It didn’t take long, and Porthos stared uneasily as the light above the morgue turned blue. “Hey, Vicks,” he asked as they left, distantly wondering why he had ever let Phobos convince him to transfer, “how many shots do you have left?

And Vicks, who held the plasma cutter in a white-knuckled but familiar grip, whispered, “Only seven,” and glanced back one last time at the body of the other maintenance worker on the floor. It didn’t move. Couldn’t. But his back burned as though he could feel Kellion watching.


End file.
